Short Stack
by Terraform
Summary: An ongoing collection of microfics/drabbles of the TMNT. First up is Mikey in "The Klunk Klause".
1. THE KLUNK KLAUSE

A/N: Another piece dug up from the archives and spit shined! First one in a mixed bag. Please enjoy.

* * *

THE KLUNK KLAUSE

Michelangelo in front of Donatello's aging computer, having wrangled a spare hour. It was no easy task prying his brother from the machine and he felt the pressure of his time limit bearing down on him. He tapped lightly at the keys, not hard enough to type anything, but enough to hear the hollow clack of his finger pads against the molded plastic, as if mapping out future sentences.

"Hm, how should I put this, little buddy?"

Klunk, wedged under the monitor, appraised this thought with a sleepy stretch of his arm.

"Good. Good input. I'll be sure to swing all my ideas by you."

Michelangelo frowned at the blank page on the screen.

"See how much I wrote in the last twenty minutes? That's all you, bud. Jumping up here in Donnie's room and distracting me."

He gave the little cat a neck scratch. Klunk's eyes slit open a fraction, and then clamped back shut with a sigh-like purr.

_Sure,_ he seemed to say without uttering a single word..._suuuuuuuureeeee_. Michelangelo chuckled at the thought before snapping his attention back to the task.

"Focus, Mikey."

He pressed his lips together as the words began to form:

_April,_

_I've put a lot of thought into this, so hear me out. I guess you know that this job comes with a lot of occupational hazards, and by 'this job' I mean regularly kicking ass and such. Just last Tuesday Raph spent an hour sealing up some of the deeper sword cracks on his shell with salve wax, and I know it must've been a bad hit because normally he thinks he's a badass if he lets it get infected. What a bonehead, but that's my bro. And that was just a little tumble with some knock-about low time crims that wanted to try out the display katanas they jacked from the local pawn shop __(amateurs, obvs)__. Let me tell you, they were as blunt as butter knives, but as heavy as hell. Thus the deep cracks. And only the Friday before Leo managed to knock out another dragon that had a gun and almost shot me at close range. Lucky he saw him before I did, I guess. I was too busy with his buddy who had gone commando on Don with a meteor hammer. That sh*t left spiral bruises and two inch gashes all down his leg, and still he goes for his evening strolls to junkyard city - now there's a badass. And you can bet your life that I didn't let that guy get away with doing that to the brains trust. I launched my 'chucks at his neck so fast that he'll be croaking his plea in court - that is, if the foot witness disposal program don't get him first. Leo had a stray bullet skim past his temple that night. It left more of a burn wound than anything, but just thinking about scares the bejesus out of me. Just like that, he could have been gone. But he's a survivor, the ol' Leo, I bet he could see it coming. Haha. _

_Anyway, point is, our list of enemies seems to keep growing, and as much as I'm a live and let live kinda guy, it seems that our encounters are usually the "throw the first punch" sort. So, now that I've painted a merry picture of the day to day shitstorm that is our lives, I get to the real question: You have to promise me that if you don't hear from us, or if we're missing, or if something does happen to us...  
_

Michelangelo paused briefly, trying to articulate his thoughts.

_...if something does happen to us, that you can look after Klunk. I couldn't forgive myself if there was no-one here for him. Sometimes I don't know myself if we're gonna make it back in one piece, and I guess what I'm getting at is it'd make me happy knowing you could look out for the little furball if ever I couldn't. He's been my best little bud since the day we met and I don't want to let him down, even if I'm not around anymore. So please,_ _**please**, give us a holla every so often so that you know we're still down here, in the dark underground, feeding the cat. I've got a small amount of money saved for some food and whatever else if it ever comes to that. And just so you know, he likes to play with string but sometimes he eats it so watch out for that - it's not pretty when it comes out the other end. Also, he loves bacon if you ever have any spare. And brushes. Lots of brushes. And if he really likes ya, he might even give ya a smoochy headbutt. Anyway, I guess that's all I have to say about that. And in case you were wondering, Raphael's back did get infected and I made it my duty to slap him on the shell as often as possible. Such a dumbass. _

_Thanks April, you're the best._

_Mikey xx'_

Michelangelo sat back, reading over his words before giving a slight nod.

"That'll do, pig."

He glanced over at his quietly rumbling cat, his heart warming at the loving trust he had been granted by the small tabby creature. If only the rest of the world were so kind. He let out a sigh of relief. This task had been playing on his mind for a long while, and very rarely did things do that. But then again, rarely did things get a chance to get close to him. But that which did he protected with a loyal fierceness that belied his cheery exterior.

The back-up plan. Sometimes even he had one.

With a slight flick of his arm he pushed the cursor over the send button, and clicked.

It was then that Leonardo burst into the room, switched on and eyes blazing.

"Mikey. Grab your things. Something's come up."

Without a second thought, Michelangelo sprung up and patted the _nunchaku_ holstered at his side.

"I'm ready, bro - let's go."

...


	2. HOW THE WAR WAS WON

A/N: A little more Don and April - imported over from DA (terraformrex) where there is a very M-rated accompanying picture of the same name.

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HOW THE WAR WAS WON

"Mooners is _so_ a word!"

The protest came out more confident than she felt, but she was sticking to her guns. April was certain she had heard it somewhere, somehow, in the course of her life. Besides that, it very much looked like a word. Enough to pass as a real one, anyway. The Pinocchio dregs of language, she surmised, and she was going to make that marionetted bastard dance. Donatello remained skeptical.

"Maybe, but it's not listed in any official book."

"_Official_?" she repeated, the condemnation rolling off her tongue like a bitter taste.

Donatello sighed. This was not going to be easy.

"Yeah. You know, 'official'. Eight letters. That I'd recognize and give you the fifty point bonus for, no problems. But you can't go making up words to put down on the board, it's just...it's not right!."

The Scrabble board lay before them, and the game was tight. With a seven letter word she'd jump easily into the lead. But ever the stickler for method, he couldn't let it just slide unchallenged. He looked down at his own tiles, a useless jumble of vowels. Even he had trouble winning against her. Not that he minded. Unlike April, most of his pleasure was derived in just in spending time with her. She on the other hand, was an unyielding slave to the competition. A small grin pulled at the edge of his mouth and he quickly hid it away.

"Are you accusing me of making up words?" she shot back, "What do you think I am? Some kind of clueless amateur? In fact, I can use it right now in a sentence: 'Mooners is a damned word.' Happy?"

Her fury rose to her cheeks in a bright flush. Donatello's heart lurched. Why was she so beautiful when she was angry? It was extremely distracting and not at all helpful right now. He looked back down at his tile holder, trying not to be derailed in his argument.

"I'm only trying to play by the rules, April."

"Fine. You don't want me to put any non-official words on the board? Well, then. How about I officially take words OFF the board..." she flicked up the board edge closest to her, scattering the letters across the floor.

Anger flashed briefly in Donatello's eyes as something in her petty defiance unlocked some primal urge within.

"I take it you resign?"

April growled, infuriated by his even temperament. She launched herself at him, fists at the ready, with the full intention of pummeling his chest. Donatello saw it coming a mile away, and catching her wrists, held her still.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" he asked her in low whisper.

Her outrage was suddenly replaced by a terrible guilt...

"I'm sorry...I'm so sorry."

"Really?" he asked softly, a glint in his eye.

She nodded.

"It's like you always say. It's just a game." her features softened, "I'll make it up to you, I promise."

He smiled, but still held her in his grasp.

"You can have the word. I really don't care anymore."

April's eyes glimmered. She looked briefly at his strong hands wrapped firmly around hers, and then back to his face, a small grin of victory on her lips.

"That's it?" she asked, "Just like that?""

"There is one condition."

April raised a brow, intrigued as to where this was going. Of course there was a condition.

He released her as it came: "Take off your clothes."

"Donnie, I don't think that move is in the official rule book."

"I know. But I was hoping we could play a new game." he said, putting his hands at her waist and dragging her closer, "and you can get as rough as you want."

April chuckled. She should have known. He probably had it all planned from the very first letter, knowing that she would eventually lose her temper. It was the dark side of her that any kind of rivalry usually brought to the fore. And besides that, she already knew exactly what she wanted to do with that mask of his.

"Hm. I've always liked that game, Don. But you have to say it - say that I won."

Donatello began stroking her waist with his thumbs, and looked her right in the eye as he lied.

"You won."

Knowing that of right now, he was the ultimate victor.

...


End file.
